In Memoriam
by Purple
Summary: Farfarello has got a "deathly" secret. And no one, not even Schuldich, knows about it... (squick, citrus - pls. read Important note inside) [MY FIRST SCHWARZ FIC]


  
IMPORTANT: Out of responsibility and concern, let me forewarn you that this fic is about NECROPHILIA -- if you don't know what this is, or if such an idea bothers you, you have the choice not to read this fic, okay? Now, having said that, consider your self warned.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
Type: Farfarello-centric oneshot  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: Ep. 18  
WARNINGS: squick, objectionable topics, citrus, language, slight AU (because we all know that Farfie is not a necrophiliac...or is he? Gasp!)  
Disclaimers: Farfie (and family) & the rest of the Schwarz boys belong to Takehito Koyasu-san and company. Other characters depicted in this fic are original, and fictitious.  
Finalized: May 18, 2001  
  
.... denotes flashbacks  
  
Thanks a bunch to Scarlet Fever for the C&C, and to Flinch Fries! ^_^  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
  
I n M e m o r i a m  
by Purple  
  
  
It was calling him.  
  
From the walls and the ceiling; from every corner of his dark room; even from the outside through his closed window -- amidst the silence, it was calling him. Humming inside his head like an old familiar tune, telling him of things he already knew...feeding his fire.   
  
He swallowed his craving thoughts.  
  
It was poison, sweet poison. And he could not give it up -- he did not want to, and found no reason worthy enough for him do otherwise.   
  
Thoughtfully, the figure sat up from his bed. He had reached for one of his knives from his bedside table, playing with it absentmindedly as his mind worked towards a decision -- a decision he seemed to be making over and over again since forever. But in the end, it always boils down to one thing: There are no choices in needs.  
  
Finally, he quietly stalked into the night to heed the call...  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Careful hands worked on the window that would open to the Receiving Room. The task wasn't so hard, since he had already tinkered with the window the first time he broke into the place, and he made sure back then that future 'visits' would be easier.   
  
Once opened, he cautiously went in. He glanced at the wall in front of him that was bombarded with all sorts of anatomical charts and 'Warning' signs. He just scoffed: same old, same old. To his right was the door that lead to the 'prep room' -- even more signs: 'Danger' and 'Authorized Personnel Only'; ignored.  
  
He entered the room, and was greeted by the familiar odor of formaldehyde and the fresh lemony fragrance of disinfectant. With the moonlight that flowed from small overhead windows into the tiled room guiding him through the semi-darkness, he quickly found his way to an occupied table positioned in the center.   
  
Anxiously, he switched on the light that was standing beside the stainless steel bed. And there it was, covered in an immaculate-white cloth: his sweet poison. He carefully disposed of the soft covering, revealing the female figure underneath it. His gaze flickered as he looked her over.  
  
She was a beautiful creature. She had wavy, auburn hair, and a pouty pair of lips; she was tall and voluptuous...and she was shot to death. Forever put to rest by merely one bullet, right through her chest. Her scraped knees and legs told of a chase; her bruised arms, of struggle. But, obviously, in the end, the hunter won.  
  
Then again, shifting his attention to her serene face, maybe not. He knew only too well that as that fool would still have to live through the agony of guilt, if not karma, brought about by his dirty deed, this woman, on the other hand, has finally found eternal peace and true freedom --  
  
Death was truly liberating.  
  
And he had proven this with her and many others. Especially with one in particular from his past: Aine.  
  
  
  
Aine Hayes was his best friend; she was a good soul. He had every reason to believe that the two of them were made for each other, though not in a romantic way. It was much deeper than that...Almost spiritual. She was an only child: he was an orphan. She was your typical girl-next-door: he was your typical juvenile delinquent. He listened to her; and she kept him 'sane.' They understood each other.  
  
Every afternoon they would meet by the lake not far from Aine's home. During those times they would just talk about anything: from her hair clips to his fears, from his bicycle to her dreams -- things that mattered to them and made them who they are. Well, except maybe for two things that were so much a part of them, and yet, so detached from them: his family and her bruises. Yes, her bruises.   
  
Although he did remember asking Aine about them once, out of concern. And he remembered how uneasy the question made her. Still, she feigned nonchalance, and told him they were nothing but proofs of her clumsiness. Nobody could be *that* clumsy, he thought. A new bruise almost everyday?! He felt there was more to this; however, he just took her word for it. He decided he would just wait until she was ready to talk about them. And when that time comes, he would be there to listen to her, as he always did.  
  
That day came on the eve of Aine's fifteenth birthday...  
  
He wanted to be the first one to greet her, so that afternoon, at their meeting place, he presented Aine with a birthday card he made especially for the occasion.  
  
"You, Jei -- the laziest person I've ever met -- *made* me a card?!" she remarked; her hazel eyes pleasantly surprised.  
  
"Is that so unbelievable?" he blinked.  
  
"No...so endearing," Aine replied warmly, taming her windblown, scarlet locks. "Thank you." And shifted her gaze back to the card. "I have to say, it's quite lovely. You're very creative," she commented, studying the pastel-colored patterns that adorned the cover -- she loved pastels. "I guess there are still a few things I don't know about you, Jei."  
  
"I guess," the boy mumbled, scratching his head.  
  
For a while, the girl silently read through the card, then, without any warning, began to cry.  
  
"W-what's the matter, Aine? Don't you like it?"  
  
"Oh no, I-I do," she quickly retorted. "I love it, actually."   
  
"Then why are you crying?" he asked worriedly.  
  
"I'm just not really looking forward to my birthday, that's all," she answered sullenly, wiping away her tears.   
  
"But why?"  
  
Silence, thoughtful and suspended.  
  
"Because it only reminds me of how long I've been living this miserable life," she finally said, staring into space.  
  
"I don't underst-"  
  
"He hurts me, Jei."  
  
"Who?"  
  
She bit her quivering lower lip in an attempt to fight back a new wave of tears.  
  
Grabbing her slender shoulders, he asked her again, "Who, Aine?"  
  
"Father."  
  
"..."  
  
Then came the story behind Aine's bruises:   
  
She told him how her father -- a devout Christian! -- had been repetitively violating her for the past nine years of her young life. And that another birthday, for her, would just mean another year of living nightmares and secret shame. The girl no longer wanted any of that; she could not take it anymore. She said she needed to get away from there, to run away. She did not know how or where to...but she will.  
  
He was shocked speechless. What was a young boy to do when he finds out that his best friend's father had been abusing her for more than half her life? What was he to say when he was just as confused as she was? He realized no words could fully comfort her...so he just held her in his arms.  
  
"The bastard!" he thought in contempt, cursing Aine's father as she broke down in the boy's arms, both of them silent from helplessness.  
  
That day, he hated God even more...  
  
*  
  
The following afternoon, the day of Aine's birthday, she did not come to their meeting place. The silver-haired lad waited, and waited...but not a shadow of her. And even though it worried him, he knew Aine had her reasons for not showing up -- and he respected that. He just wished that her being too ashamed to face him after her revelation the day before was not one of them; he wanted to believe that their friendship was above such passing, though painful, hurdles.  
  
By nightfall, the boy finally decided that he would just go look for her in her school tomorrow.  
  
*  
  
The next day, the boy was met with news that would forever change his life: AINE WAS DEAD. She committed suicide on the day of her birthday by cutting her wrist with a knife. She left no suicide note; she was dead when they found her.  
  
The signs from their last meeting came to him like a ton of cold bricks: Was that what she meant when she said that she 'needed to get away from there'?! That she would take her life!? And was that what she meant when, instead of the usual 'see you tomorrow,' she bade him 'goodbye' in tears; hugging him ever so tightly and telling him never to forget? That she would leave him...forever?   
  
Death...no...not death....  
  
*  
  
Aine was gone. Aine was dead. Aine killed herself. And he did not think any of it would make sense to him ever. Standing outside the funeral home, he searched for the courage that would get him through this final goodbye.   
  
He did not care if her parents hated him. He did not care if his presence would make the mourners 'talk.' He did not care if nobody inside the four walls of that bloody funeral home wanted him there. Cause all he cared about was Aine, and seeing her one last time.   
  
The walk from the door to the coffin lasted for what seemed like an eternity. He remembered seeing Aine's mother talking to one of the churchgoers, too occupied to see him walk in. He remembered cursing the girl's incestuous bastard of a father, who was not there, for what he did to her and made her do. He remembered seeing the surprised look on some of the mourners' faces as he passed them by. These quiet scenes slowly flashing before him.   
  
Then, an uneasy thought hit him. He was suddenly afraid of what he might see. Did he really want to remember Aine as a cold and lifeless body? Did he really want to see the traces of the pain she had been through during those last minutes? Did he really want to see her in grief..._again_, this last time? He took a deep breath.   
  
Standing beside her coffin, he summoned his eyes to look down. And what he saw surprised him...  
  
Where the boy expected to see his ill-fated friend, he saw a girl who seemed so at peace, instead. Clothed in a white Sunday dress of pastel-colored lace and embroidery; lovely, vermilion tresses for her pillow; and a flower in hand. Aine's face exuded a different kind of beauty and calmness -- not a trace of pain, not a hint of sadness. Just Aine, and her essence so pure. Death had saved her. Death had set her free. Death had given her the escape she so wanted. Finally, everything was truly okay with her.  
  
That day, Death -- not God -- earned his respect.  
  
  
On his way out, he ran into Aine's father. And, as expected, the old man was enraged at the sight of him. Not wasting another second, Mr. Hayes grabbed him by his arm, and roughly escorted the boy out of the funeral home.   
  
Once outside, he began cursing the boy in front of curious onlookers and mourners. The man then accused him of being a bad influence to Aine, and told him that her death was the boy's fault, _everything_ was the boy's fault; and that he did not want any filthy murderer around his daughter's wake.  
  
The teenager could have killed the old man, but he restrained himself. He would not give the bastard the satisfaction of death. He wanted Aine's father and violator to pay for his sins. He wanted for the man to live with his own guilt -- this would be Mr. Hayes's lifetime punishment. And he wished for Mr. Hayes's life to be long.  
  
By the following day, everybody in town knew of this father's heinous deed....  
  
  
  
The boy freed himself from his reverie, and returned to here-and-now. He looked back down to the nameless body in front of him. He knew the girl heard his thoughts. And now they were even: she had read a piece of his life as he had earlier read the final hours of hers. Slowly, he reached out for her hand. Tenderly wrapping one pale hand with both of his. The coldness was familiar; the texture, new. He kissed cold hands   
  
Amber gaze shifted to her face, then to her inviting lips of faded pink. A light gasp silently escaped his blasphemous lips. The thought of kissing her awakening something familiar within him. His heart was pounding in anticipation, as he slowly closed the distance between them...  
  
The kiss was both overwhelming and soothing. It calmed him, as it also stirred something deep inside of him. But more importantly, it reminded him of why he couldn't give this sinful indulgence up -- not yet, or maybe, not ever.  
  
Their kiss was just the start of his initiation into her being...  
  
  
  
His fascination with death and dead bodies began not long after Aine passed away. Almost every night he would break into the local funeral home just to have a look at the bodies that were brought in during the day.   
  
It was a small town; he knew all the bodies he came across with: The young widow, Mrs. Brenon, who probably died of a lonely heart. But, looking at her in her inanimate state, he knew she found happiness afterwards. Mr. Hanlon, the carpenter who was in a freak accident a few months back which resulted to him being in a coma for three days. On the third day, he gave out. Life crippled him, but Death had set him free. And Ms. Kiely, the well-loved schoolteacher who spent the last two years of her life fighting a hopeless bout with an incurable disease. Finally, her long suffering was over, and there was only peace -- Death's solace.  
  
And this was how he spent most of his nights: observing the dead, talking to them, and 'seeing' them, while wondering what it feels like to be one. Look, ask, touch, dream -- the simple joys of his time spent with the dearly departed.  
  
Then, there was Nell, the reason he took everything one step further...  
  
Nell went to the same school as Aine. And he recalled his best friend telling him that Nell, who seemed constantly in a world of her own, was really a nice person once you get to know her. A fragile girl that Nell, always ill. He remembered her as the very lovely yet very lonely type: a tragic beauty.  
  
But on the night they met, she was as beautiful as she could ever be. With her long, raven black hair freed from its usual ponytail; her clear blue eyes lidded, with long, fine lashes; and her hidden ethereal beauty now exposed, framed by her perfectly oval-shaped face.   
  
He could have sworn that Nell was practically glowing from the energy she exuded, one she had kept to herself until that night. He remembered looking at her for who knows how long, mesmerized with her beauty. And when he touched her, he immediately knew it was different from the way he touched the others. It was more of breathtaking wonder than mere interest. He held her slender hand, touched her cheeks, smelled her hair, and traced her lips with unsteady fingers. Then without thinking...he kissed her.  
  
Her lips were like snowflakes, cool with sweetness so delicately faint, gently melting at the touch of his warm lips. A shiver ran down his spine. He couldn't remember tasting anything as wonderful, as the nameless sensation overtook him.   
  
And for the first time, he completely uncovered a body before him. His heart pounding in his chest as he did so. And he knew what was about to happen, but he was not afraid -- he never was ever since that last goodbye with Aine.   
  
That night, he made love to Nell. And it was beautiful.  
  
He would eventually make love to many more dead women, but his first time with Nell would always be different and special, because it was innocent and pure; a boy's sexual awakening. And through the years this would evolve into the complex need for refuge and understanding; a man's sacred passion.   
  
  
  
Tonight, he was once again going to partake in an experience only so few understood and needed. Tonight, the questions he used to ask _them_ would be answered all over again. Tonight, he was going to feel Nell's quiet beauty with him. Tonight, even for a moment, he was going to be with Aine once again.   
  
Like in a ritual, he undressed himself. Now baring himself to the one lying before him in the embalming room. He was out of himself, but that was the least of his concerns. He was not afraid of losing control because it was really about letting go.  
  
Just like in crossing over, one should not fight Death or else one could never fully appreciate its magic. It is part of the cycle; you should just let it happen. Let it do what it was set out to do. And then bask in its afterglow.  
  
A slender finger ran down the woman's wan cheek to her freshly kissed lips. His right eye following closely as his hand slid down her neck, her shoulders, and stopping at her still chest. He took a deep, calm breath as his warm body moved to be closer to her. He joined her on the hard bed, and positioned himself.  
  
Skin to skin, he burned at the touch of coldness. Succumbing to the craving that was her. Slowly, he took her. And nothing would ever compare to what he was feeling right now: pure bliss. He could feel her energy. Her spirit had long left her body, but her energy, her aura, was still there -- holding on to her for as long as it could. It was overwhelming....   
  
  
His flaccid body fell all over her. Resting his damp face on her chest, he listened to the soothing silence within her -- his body in weary surrender, his mind in fixed-gaze recollection.  
  
Only one thought was running through his head right now: _He felt it_. Once again, he felt _it_. For a few precious seconds, he was there with them, with _her_. Feeling what they feel, being what they are. _Le petit mort_. (1) In the suspended stillness, a warm tear escaped amber eye....  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Farfarello returned to their place as quietly as he left it earlier. It had been a long night -- a long, thought-filled night. And it was time to put those thoughts to rest. Back to the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind where no one could reach them, not even Schuldich.  
  
He closed the door noiselessly. And as he turned to make his way to his room, someone came out from one of the others'.   
  
The brunette was in his pajamas, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he caught sight of the older boy. "Where have you been?" he asked, drowsy, before breaking into a yawn.  
  
"Out," replied the laconic individual.  
  
The younger boy glanced at the wall clock. It read 2:49 AM. With a puzzled look, Nagi shot him another question, "What were you doing outside at such a time?"  
  
Pale lips slowly quirked up into a dark half-smile...  
  
"Hurting God."  
  
  
~Owari~  
  
  
  
  
Thanx for reading! ^_^ ::points at 'Review' box::  
  
  
Endnote:  
(1) a French phrase meaning 'the little death.'  
  
  
  



End file.
